Color My World
by etherealxx
Summary: Zexion: By day, a twenty-four year old writer isolated in his apartment. By night, something different all together. When Demyx approaches him one night, he's convinced something's up. Will he help the writer or get sucked into Zexion's shadow? Zemyx
1. Chapter 1 Edited

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Kingdom Hearts II. Otherwise, there'd be no doubt of everyone's true sexualities. (:

**Summary:** The mysterious Ishida Zexion, by day, a twenty-four year old writer isolated in the depths of his apartment. By night, he's something different all together. When Demyx, an overworked college student, approaches him one night, he becomes convinced something's up with the man. Can he draw out the writer enough to help him, or will he get sucked into Zexion's shadow? ( Zemyx, AkuRoku if you squint )

**Author's Note:** Yes, this is an edited version cause the first one had past/present tense problemos! I'm back from hiatus, btw. (: The two songs I used are _A Whisper & A Clamor_ by Anberlin and _Cute Without the 'E'_ by Taking Back Sunday. x3

* * *

_Growing tired of bedside resolve_

_(Politics lay out the pressure)_

_Something's got to give now_

_Something's going to break down_

Zexion jolted involuntarily from his bed, his buzzing phone dropping from his night stand. With dark, blue-tinged hair straggled over his forehead, he cracked open his sandy lids, groaning to himself. His bedroom swirled in his eyes, bouncing and throbbing to the rhythm of his pulse. Breath staggering,

Zexion gripped the feathery sheets stuck fast to his bare chest. His fingers began to tremble at the force.

_I_ _grow tired of writing songs_

_While people listen but never hear what's really going on now_

_Tell me what's so wrong now_

Zexion clenched his teeth and forced himself to sit up. He managed halfway and would have succeeded, had not his back stiffened the last minute. He crashed back onto the comforter. Sweat trickled from his sore temple.

_Clap your hands all ye children_

_There's a clamor in your whispering_

_Clap your hands tonight_

"Damn it, I get it! I'm awake!" he called out angrily. His hand slapped messily in the general direction of his fallen phone. He gasped, forcing himself to stop panting. Had he been dreaming? Was that why he was so feverish?

He mentally shook his head. No, he'd woken in the middle of the night; he'd been dreaming then. And then he'd gotten a drink and lain in bed again, waiting for darkness to reclaim him.

He couldn't remember when it did.

For most of men believe hell is never knowing who they are now

_(Tell me who you are now)_

_Finally saved from the outside trapped in what you know_

_Are you safe from yourself? Can you escape all by yourself?_

Shaking his head, Zexion shut his lids and relaxed, releasing the pressure built in his fine jaw line, dropping the tension knotted in his shoulders; his gnarled hands lay restfully. He waited silently for the sporadic tightness to drop from his breathing before reopening his eyes. He waited for the cool rest.

Contented finally and breathing regularly now, Zexion slumped to the side, reaching for his blaring alarm phone. With a grim smile, he silenced it. He was acutely aware of the new silence. There was nothing to do but wash and dress.

Zexion's loose, black jeans slipped over the edge of his mattress, and he stood, fully on his way to the bathroom. A malevolent glint of light stopped him midstep.

Clenching his fists, Zexion made his way to the full body mirror in the room's only lit corner. It was the mean area that sunlight managed reach, where two diagonal window's of the penthouse faced together. Beams of gold sun danced at the feet of the mirror, cut intricately at the pointed shadows of leaves raking the windows.

Zexion stared hauntedly at the looking glass, shaking fingers smoothing over his hard chest.

At the age of 24, Ishida Zexion was of well build, though he did nothing to indulge his physical needs. He hated sports; consequently, he had no talent for them. Gathered at his face, he had features that, combined, could pass as handsome. He was a half-breed, as he jokingly referred to himself. His mother being Japanese, he had sculpted, witty edges to his face. His natural hair was stark black. Zexion could barely recall his father's heritage. He remembered simply the man speaking something of being raised in Venice, Italy.

Zexion's eyes were an alarming blue, a deep color harboring both the depths of the expansive skies and the shine of the canals of his father's home. But these eyes were unfocused, blurred at the irises and shaded a faint purple beneath. His lips were a pale color, pressed always in a marred, tired expression.

Weariness, however, played no roll in the so-called flaw in his persona. At the rare events that his blue eyes did become bright, setting straight off his translucently discolored skin, they were almost always narrowed, calculating and seeing nothing worth venturing. When his lips did not part in fatigue, they would tighten with derision or disgust.

Now, though, Zexion stared with neither his overbearing exhaustion nor his cold outter skin. Unraveled, he stared almost fearfully at his reflection. Marks, bite marks, sank irregularly at areas around his neck and collarbones. Zexion's throat sank with utter dread.

How many times had he waken to find those marks spread erratically on his skin? How many times had he found his lips to be chapped in the morning, or bruised? How many times had he lifted the sheets from his chest to find--

He grimaced, voiced the grimace. "Why?" he whispered to the blue-haired boy before him. His hands moved to the mirror's surface. "Why can't I ever remember? What's happening to me?" His features crumbled in horror. "Has this happened before?"

However, his thoughts were interrupted by a loud yelp from his phone. He flinched at the sudden noise but recovered almost as quickly. Grimly, he lumbered back to his bed, where he'd left the device.

Zexion's ring tone was the blurred sound of static, a sound he'd stumbled into while searching something or another on his handy laptop. It intrigued him, but beyond that, it calmed him, gave him nothing apprehend.

Fumbling with the touch pad, Zexion managed to answer the handphone. "Hello?"

"Zexion Ishida, is it?" an unfamiliar voice startled him.

Brows coming together, Zexion frowned to himself. "Yes--"

"My name's Xaldin. Plain, simple, Xaldin," the voice cut in gruffly. "I'm familiar with your old editor, Na--"

"Naminé," it was Zexion's turn to interrupt. "What do you mean 'old' editor?"

"It would do you good to _not_ interrupt me," Xaldin reprimanded. "And yes, 'old' editor. The firm assigned her to someone else--"

"Without first consulting me?" Zexion nearly yelled. "Your writer?"

"Twice," growled Xaldin. "Do I have to tell you twice to not interrupt me when I am speaking?"

"I'm sorry," Zexion replied rushedly, "but this mean's that you--"

"Yes, I am your new editor," Xaldin said brusquely. "Your new editor calling to remind you that your deadline passed almost a week ago. This is the fifth day, so I'll be expecting drafted chapters on my desk this afternoon, by four o'clock, Zexion."

"What is this? School?" Zexion demanded. His frown became a heated glare.

He heard Xaldin scoff. "Might as well be. I looked over Naminé's reports on you. What you need is discipline. Shall I come over now and check on you?"

Zexion's stomach made an unrelenting back flip as his eyes scaled the expanding penthouse. Books lay ripped, footnoted, and disheveled at every corner of the room. Notes and papers were stuffed unceremoniously into draws and dressers that seemed to produce themselves at the most unsettled places. The other day, wanting in all ways to experience the marvels of being surrounded by giants, he'd just succeeded in arranging every piece of furniture in each room into wide circles. Not to mention the graffiti flourishing every inch of his bedroom walls.

"Zexion?"

"Four o'clock, got it," Zexion mumbled before snapping the sleek, silver slide-phone shut. He rubbed his temple; the headache had returned quickly enough. He stared wearily at the device in his hands.

It was a top-of-the-notch sort of phone, but, of course, he hadn't actually picked it out. When he was lost on his way to the underground bar one day, _Nocture_, it had occured to him that having a handphone would be more than useful. So he'd asked Naminé to buy him one, promising to pay her back. Consequently, she'd returned with the most expensive cell phone money could buy.

That was no matter for Ishida Zexion, prodigy writer, known for his occasional fantasies and accounts on the unwatched life. And what a wonder he knew so much about it, considering his newfound isolation in his dear apartment. Nights were an entirely different matter...

Zexion sighed, his fingers quivering on his chest again, kneeling at the feet of his bed to extract a black laptop from beneath. He started toward the desk but, on seeing its filled capacity, decided otherwise. He promised himself dully to straighten everything later but forgot the notion almost exactly on leaving it.

Dropping the laptop on his bed, Zexion went to dress and, hopefully, to wash. Once he finished this draft, he'd have to force himself out the door to hand it in. There'd be no going back this time or, judging by Zexion's first impression of Xaldin, it would be his head.

* * *

This same morning, Hitoshiri Demyx rolled over his bed sheets, his dirty blonde hair falling in messy clumps over his turned head. His face collapsed in the sea of his lumped pillow while his legs dragged over the edges of his small dorm bed.

"Demyx, honey bun," a masculine voice rumbled in his ear, "if you don't wake up in two seconds, Ms. Expensive-Bass is gonna meet Mr. Hot-Hot-Flame."

"Mrrrhm," Demyx mumbled, waving his hand limply. His heavy head bobbed lazily as he heard the sound of skin hitting nylon string. Absently moistening his lips, Demyx sank back immediately. "Later, Mommy..."

"Or wait," the voice continued ruefully. Now, Demyx could hear the speaker's hand venturing, and his ear pricked irritably. "No, I think he's into someone else. This pretty little sitar right he--"

"No!" Demyx practically shrieked as he lunged at his smug roommate. His bare feet ricocheted from the wooden bed frame, awoken eyes bright with intent. He howls, smooth hands clawing in the air. "Axel, get your fucking paws off of her!"

"Alright, alright!" Axel, an exceedingly tall redhead, yelled, trying to talk above his screaming friend. He held out the electric blue sitar loosely. "God, take your stupid stick of junk. No one else wants it anyway."

Demyx's cheeks burned the color of cherries. The cute, almost childish features of his face twisted foreignly into an indignant scowl. "You know what, Axel?" he seethed, and Axel took a step back, making sure to extend the full length of the lanky arm--the one holding the sitar. Maybe he'd pushed his blonde friend a little too far. "I think," Demyx snatched his instrument back, "_you_'re the one with a stupid stick of junk. And it's not an instrument, if you know what I mean."

Axel gaped, his wide mouth resembling a doughnut. But the moment of shock passed quickly, sizzling like a quenched flame. Throwing back his mane of firey hair, Axel laughed loudly, hysterically, a great sound that bounded through every corner and inch of the crammed room.

Demyx, now calmed, looked uneasily at his friend while settling back on his bed. Usually impressed by the room's exceptional acoustics, the blonde now rubbed his ears with an uncertain expression. "Er..." his voice trailed meekly. "Axe?"

Stopping finally, Axel could only grin at his roommate, panting for breath. "Sorry, Dem, but you, trying to look angry--and that crack about my junk--" he stopped short, laughing a little still. He wiped tears from his emerald eyes. "Ahh, what a way to start the morning."

Glaring half-heartedly at his friend, Demyx rubbed the glittering frets of his electric sitar. "Shut up, Axel," he said. He cracked a wistful smile, looking down.

"You know how long it took me to find this thing? Aw, and then that day I left the city and spotted that old shop. She was sitting right there at the w--"

"Yeah, Dem. Save it for the biography," Axel yawned, stretching and flexing lengthy arms. Demyx was suddenly acutely aware of his friend's half-nakedness, and he coughed, rightly perturbed.

Face red, Demyx turned his head away, his long, blonde bangs jostling along. "Axe, put on a shirt before France comes to reclaim your scrawny chest."

He heard Axel snort in response. "Oh, _my_ scrawny chest?" Axel's bright eyes glimmered with amusement as he snatched an old band tee from the floor. "Why don't you take a look in the mirror, skinny boy?"

Demyx, in his white tank top and camouflage boxers, blushed again, hitting another loud chord. He mumbled something about an amp cable.

Contrary to the blonde's comment, Axel _was_ exceptionally built. Hard abdominals were accented on his taut, bronze skin while his otherwise noted "skinny" arms flexed with evident muscle. However, his condition was known by few--with the exception of his numerous affairs. The loud-mouthed redhead was undeniably handsome, with foreign emerald eyes and electric, spiked red hair--all natural, also known by said affairs. But he did appear almost unhealthily skin and--if described by an unnoted bystander--freakishly tall.

Thinking this all over, Demyx's face only colored more. Who was he--aside from an undiscovered musician and an underpaid employee--next to the great Axel? Shaking his head, Demyx smiled faintly to himself. Maybe saying "great" was pushing it a little.

"Are you guys okay?" a familiar voice called from the doorway. "I heard screaming."

"Roxas!" Demyx's smile grew, but he doubted the boy heard him. Axel had beaten him to a greeting.

"Roxy!"

Axel had abandoned the task of stuffing his T-shirt over the great spikes of his hair and was clad only in a pair of tight, tight jeans. Making his way over the piles of cloth and paper, Axel perched himself right at the doorway, crossing his arms and donning a sexy smile. "Hey, Rox," he grinned. "See anything you like?"

Roxas was a small boy in general, so he and Axel appeared as opposites. His eyes were a bright cerulean, while his blonde hair shot up in short, natural spikes. He, much shorter, glared up. But his small cheeks betrayed him and brightened the red of the taller boy's hair. "Axel, if I did," Roxas said carefully, "I would've dumped you a long time ago."

Demyx saw Axel bend to peck Roxas's lips but looked elsewhere when it became clear the two weren't finished. Drawing a chord stream to mind, Demyx played contentedly, patiently.

It was clearly spring, for leaves sprung sporadically from the trees outside--not that Demyx's dorm window allowed such a sight. No, the blonde's window revealed a _very_ detailed view of the next building's red, brick wall. Demyx's smile didn't faze. He, Roxas, and Axel were saving up for an apartment. The three weren't far from the goal, and it was good timing. The school year was ending.

"So, Dem, are you covering the bar tonight?" Roxas asked, walking inside the crammed room. Demyx could see the boy's lips bruised and his eyes bright.

He sighed; it was time he found a relationship. The only problem with the matter was the requirement of a partner...

Demyx focused on his friend's question. Tapping his sitar's neck, he looked up thoughtfully. "Let's see," he said.

Demyx had three jobs--four, counting the occasional drop-in's at the underground bar owned by a friend. During the week, he worked behind the register at the college bookstore and the CD shop around the corner of their campus. Over the weekend, he waitered at a coffee house.

"Today's Friday," Demyx lifted his fingers, as if counting, "so I'm only working at _the Ambiant_ from twelve o'clock to two-thirty. And all my classes end at six o'clock, so..." Demyx's face curled into what resembled a grimace as he thought through the times. Finally, he lifted his head with his usual smile again and nodded excitedly. "Yeah, Rox, I'll drop by around six-thirty," said Demyx.

"Sweet," Axel slipped his arm around Roxas and pulled the two onto his unmade bed.

"You know, you don't have to," added Roxas with concern, "I don't get how you survive like this."

Demyx shrugged and gingerly placed his sitar beside him. "It's no big deal," he lied, suppressing a nod. "They're fun jobs." He bent over his bed and fished for clean clothes.

"_The Ambiant_," stroking Roxas's hair, Axel smirked to himself, "what a stupid name for a CD store."

Roxas ignored him and continued. "What about classes, Dem? How do you deal with those?"

Forgetting the name, Demyx stood abruptly, petrified. "C-Classes," he managed, pale. "What time is it?" he demands. "I don't wanna be rude or anything--"

"Seven-fifty five!" Roxas yelled, startling redhead beside him. "You're gonna be late!"

"Right--" Pulling up abnormally tight skinny jeans--he'd grabbed Axel's in the confusion--and zipping a hoodie around him, Demyx snatched a worn backpack from the bedside and stomped into his shoes. Waving to his two friends, he shoved himself out the door at a full sprint to his first class. The long cuffs of Axel's slumping over his shoes, Roxas and Axel could hear Demyx's breathy apologizes as he stumbled over the other students in the dorm.

Roxas sighed, but Axel, smirking still, twisted to directly face his partner. "Well, Roxy," he brought his voice to a whisper, "it's just you and me."

Rolling his eyes, Roxas shoved a bookbag at Axel's bare chest and stood.

"Get to class," he called behind him as he left the room.

* * *

_And will you tell all your friends,_

_You've got your gun to my head_

_This all was only wishful thinkin,_

_This all was only wishful thinkin_

_And will you tell all your friends..._

"_You've got your gun to my head_," Zexion hummed beneath his breath.

Music echoed through the short hallways of Ishida Zexion's apartment. Before he had moved in, Zexion had arranged for soundproof walls. He did not want to be disturbed by noise complaints.

Brushing blue-dyed hair over his right eye, Zexion exhaled lowly. His lithe fingers tapped erratically over his laptop keys and paused every two minutes or so. During these short breaks, the twenty-four year old would absently chew the inside of his lip, curl his brow, delete at least half of a written line, and then continue on his way.

Since he was only editting instead of adding--something Naminé had had to drill in his mind long ago--the process was diminished to shorter typing spurts and longer pauses for deleting and chewing.

Hoping for the best just hoping nothing happens

_A thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins_

_I wil never ask if you don't ever tell me_

_I know you well enough to know--_

Zexion's hands collapsed on his keyboard, and he gently leaned his head back. His rectangular bed was pushed to fit right in a corner of his room, and it was in that exact corner that he sat. His head was propped between the two adjacent walls.

"_I know you well enough to know you never loved me_," he sang tunelessly. He adored that verse; he despised it. It took a curious person, Zexion thought, to welcome humiliation. However, it took an even more curious person to stand always beside one they loved, one who insisted they loved back. It was understandable if the person was simply foolish enough to believe such a lie.

However, Zexion imagined someone living in constant pain of a well-possessed knowledge, someone who embraced the life anyway. A masochist, Zexion had considered at first. Or maybe it took a wise man to realize lies were much more beautiful than the truth. Maybe it took another fool.

Either way, such feelings didn't compute to Zexion, and that is why he wrote. He wrote to capture the exact thoughts and interactions of every such "curiousity". It made him feel more himself. If he ever doubted who he was, he could simply read his prose. _I am not him_, he would repeat to himself.

What he never considered was becoming one such person.

_Bzzz..._

Zexion grabbed his vibrating phone and slid it open. "March thirty-first, two-fourty PM," he read beneath his breath, "two saved events." His thumb ran quickly over the buttons.

The first event was saved as an audio. Zexion frowned. He couldn't recall ever learning to save an audio; he knew little of his phone's capacities aside from events, alarm, and communicating. Opening the file, he put the phone to his ear.

"_Oi, Zexthionn_," the unfamiliar voice was slurred, not his. "_You jussst told me to leave an eventh, but I thhought I'd ssthpice it up, ussse my voiccce_--"

At this point, another stranger's voice seemed to chastise them and take hold of the receiver. "_Zexion_," the voice was firm, "_you promised you'd meet us at the_ Nocturne _next Friday night. You said you'd forget, so we're making sure you don't, Zexion. Seven o'clock. Be there._"

The event ended there. Heavy head swaying, Zexion tightened his jaw. It began to convulse ever so slightly, but he took no notice.

If he'd forgotten about the audio completely, he'd probably engaged with the speakers during the night. Shrugging the laptop from his legs, Zexion folded his knees close to him and dropped his head at their caps. His temples began to throb irritably, and he groaned softly. He felt his entire body begin to quiver, and he began panting again.

If the occurence had been so important, then obviously it was practical for him to record it onto his phone. It was the only way he was sure he didn't forget everything.

Zexion didn't see his memory _glitch_ as anything serious. There were only two other people who knew of it--possibly three--and those were Naminé and Lexaeus downstairs. The times he did ponder his problem, he shrugged off the idea of getting checked out. He'd rather not have to describe himself to a stranger.

"I'll go," Zexion murmured to himself in a gasping breath. He forced himself to relax again and pushed his thoughts from his mind. Setting the first event to ring again in an hour, Zexion added a quick footnote to it. Calm now, he checked the next event; it was typed, and he could vaguely remember punching it in that morning.

"It's about the drafts and the deadline," he said to himself. He was relieved to see that he was correct.

He whispered to the air, "A new editor? I remember something as much. He was--" his head throbbed again "--patronizing." He took a peek at the time and nodded to himself. "I have time to get there," he said raggedly.

Turning his attention back to his laptop, Zexion saved his work. "It's not as if my edits will matter," he added mentally. He clicked the printer icon and listened for the soft fan and beep from the printer in the next room. Upon hearing it, he nodded and stood.

Zexion looked down on himself, smoothing the tee that he wore over a white collar shirt. Stalking toward the full body mirror, he grimaced; his brain might forget occasionally, but the body remembered.

He seemed decent, he thought. The long sleeves of his black T-shirt clung presentingly to his miraculously built arms. White cloth from the shirt beneath snuck from the trims of the tee, as well as at the collar and the bottom hem. For pants, he wore loose and wrinkled, black jeans.

Satiated, he twisted away from the glass curtly and left for the small study, from which he could hear the printer. The study was relatively bright, lit by open windows. It was a small room, so the sun exerted little effort in chasing away the numbered shadows. A small desk lay against the wall opposite the door, where a laser printer worked away hastily. Fluttered leaflets with mistaken inkblots and drafts with permanent cross-outs surrounded it.

Zexion sunk into the chair before the desk, briefly checking the printer's progress. He had time before the four o'clock makeshift deadline, maybe he'd take a nap. Relaxing his neck, Zexion's head lulled backwards, his hair tangling atop his forehead. He closed his eyes.

He heard voices.

"_I'll be expecting drafted chapters on my desk this afternoon, by four o'clock, Zexion_."

"_You said you'd forget, so we're making sure you don't, Zexion. Seven o'clock. Be there._"

"_Zexion, Zexion, Zexion, Zexion_--"

"_Everyone, I give you Ishida Zexion!_"

"_You're a quiet one aren't you?_"

"_Get out of the car! Listen to your mother, go! Go now_--_!_"

"_Shh...Zex..._"

Zexion's eyes fluttered open, and he shook his head groggily. He hadn't even fallen asleep, he noticed glumly. He knew by looking at the printer and seeing it finish the same page he'd seen it start only seconds ago.

Shaking his head, Zexion relaxed against the desk chair again. His eyes cracked open and remained fixed on the smooth ceiling. Breathing heavily, he tried to recall a Friday night engagement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Kingdom Hearts. (:

**Author's Notes:** I apologize for the biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig delay. I'm still in post camp depression. And I'm a bit--okay, very--lazy. This chapter probably isn't as good as it could be, but I did work hard on it. Haha, that sounded lame. Oh, this is my last chapter of my current age. Tomorrow's my birthday!! August 15th! x3 _Enjoy_.

* * *

Grunting, Demyx threw himself out the door of his dorm room. He wore a sleeveless red hoodie and his own pair of loose, gray jeans. The whites of his eyes were tinged red as if the lights burned them.

"Late!" his towering door seemed to scream as he struggled to lock it.

"Yeah, I know," the dirty blonde murmured, shoving his key into his butt pocket. All but kicking off the door, Demyx shot out of the building, the brown tips of his hair flailing behind him.

Demyx sprinted down the campus lawn. His brain shouted frantic directions that echoed painfully through his head. He squinted, glad that sunset had grown to be drastically late.

_Otherwise we'd have to thank God for the moon._

He smiled.

No one ever bothered with taxis in Radiant Garden--the college's city. Indeed, it was a large city, but no one figured walking would kill. Besides, who wouldn't want to be walked across the bright streets of RG at the end of a date? At night, window lights danced across the clear sky, and they would mingle like water color on a canvas. Radiant Garden was colorful, not quite as glamorous as its neighboring cities, but beautiful in a soft perspective. Its lights were not harsh but like the blurred images one sees through tears.

Demyx recalled all this, even as his tangled feet struggled to run faster. He'd just left the college gates.

Now, he longed for the night. He longed to see the scattered lasers of billboards and the warm beams of lampposts. Sure, he could see the multicolored street signs, but he wished for the black that would emphathize them as unmistakable.

_Just two more blocks..._

Squeezing his eyes, Demyx tried not to think about the distance nor the faint ache in his calves. The blonde wasn't exactly the best runner. He'd only attended the minimum days of gym during high school, spending the rest of his time locked in a practice room with his old sitar. His reasoning was that he was physically inept at excelling in athletics, while his music had another world of skill to overcome. And music was cooler.

Stop. Demyx had to remind himself that a crosswalk was coming up. Thankfully, he'd stopped himself a couple of feet away from the street corner. He jogged lightly to the crossing light and continued on his way as the glowing white man appeared.

"That was close," he panted. Brushing sweat from his forehead, Demyx rushed forward even more quickly. His job at the bar wasn't official, no, but he'd made a promise to show up. A promise to Roxas but, by extension, a promise to his young friend Larxene, the owner.

Demyx shuddered to himself jokingly. _Don't wanna get on her bad side--_

_Thud._

"Hey, watch it!"

Running so quickly, Demyx hadn't seen a tall man until he'd ended up pushed to floor by him. Now crumbled on the cold concrete, Demyx squinched his face upon looking up. His palms burned, and he didn't have to look to see they were scraped. "I'm sorry--What?" he asked, confused.

"Skinny, you were about to run into me!" the man, an intimidating figure in black, growled. He stood cross-armed above Demyx, and the blonde couldn't help but cower a little.

Fighting a sticky lump in his throat, Demyx gulped and frowned. "So you pushed me to the ground?" He flexed his hands, his bar tending hands, and winced a little. Larxene wouldn't be pleased.

"Self-defense, Skinny," the man said, his pale nostrils flared. He smirked down at Demyx. "You're probably not very familiar with it by the looks of you.

What do you weigh? A hundred? Ninety? No, that hair of your's probably has to weigh you down a little. What the hell _is_ that? A mohullet?"

The man looked like he was in his twenties, definity past his teens and far too bright-eyed for his thirties. His short hair was white-blonde, and he had

matching facial hair. His eyes were a rueful green.

"Piss off," Demyx mumbled, struggling to his feet by his wrists. He examined his palms and then curled them into fists; he bit his tongue on the sting. He pushed past the guy.

The man was laughing at him, but Demyx ignored the sound. The bar was just at the end of the block, so he started walking--speed-walking.

"R'you exercising for me now?" Demyx heard him call. Gritting his teeth, Demyx continued on his way, deciding against a response. A person had to ignore jerks like that man; they were there, and there was nothing to do about it. Demyx, instead, concerned himself over his hands. The scrapes were minor, but they were dirty and clotted with sidewalk pebbles. Plus, they stung like a bitch.

Demyx shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and sharply faced left. He'd reached an old apartment building, abandoned by the looks. The blonde looked past it and his gaze went down to the cellar entrance. Dank steps led into seven feet of darkness. With no regard to the rusted railing, Demyx descended.

Reaching a paint-chipped door, Demyx could see blue lights through the patterned glass window. Before he could kick it open, however, the door jolted open and a thin, feminine, hand snatched him inside.

* * *

"_...so we're making sure you don't, Zexion. Seven o'clock. Be there._"

Zexion flinched as he slid his phone shut again. He'd all but memorized the message by now. Sighing, he huddled in the torn leather seat of the taxi cab.

"A little quicker please," he murmured, his eyes fluttering.

His engagement with Xaldin did nothing for his headache, and Zexion had barely the strength to leave the apartment for the second time that day. He hadn't listened to his editor's mad ranting and criticism. In fact, he could hardly remember half the brunette's words. Zexion could call to mind only the vicious image of the man.

He was tall, very tall and broad as a bear. His face was as smooth as a stone, lacking smile lines. Its facets were scars. Zexion wasn't surprised.

"Goin' as fast as I can, thank you very much," the cab driver grunted, honking the horn. "Damn pedestrians."

Radiant Garden wasn't one of the cities where you could dawdle on the street and snap your fingers for a taxi. It was this compelling factor that had attracted Zexion to RG in the first place, but now that he actually lived there, he saw it as an impractical inconvenience.

Zexion wanted to ask the man how often he had duty calls--for future references--but decided against it. He would do without speaking.

"Ah, finally," the driver said ruefully. With that, the vehicle jolted forward, knocking an unsuspecting Zexion forward. He jerked backward with a loud cough. The driver hummed to himself, satisfied, "Sorry 'bout that. But we're here."

"Thanks," Zexion mumbled, averting his cerulean orbs. He snatched a bill from his jacket pocket and half-heartedly tossed it in the driver's direction.

"Whoah, whoah, whoah, buddy!" the driver yelled as Zexion struggled out of the car door. "You don't get out much do ya? This is like my fucking yearly wage! Wait for your change--"

Shoving himself into the street, Zexion slammed the door. "Keep it."

He didn't wait for the taxi to zoom away but spun on the white sidewalk. The bar was definitely on this block, but did he go forward or back? Hands convulsing, he blinked, disoriented. His head throbbed again as if reminding him to hurry.

Forward, he decided. And sure enough, he recognized a pair of rusted metal railings, shooting down to what looked like the abyss. How cliché.

His jeans falling about him, Zexion stumbled down the concrete steps, suddenly in no rush at all. His last glimpse at his mobile told him he was at least five minutes early.

Seeing finally the jaded doorway, Zexion paused. He could hear the muffled blair of hip-hop music and the faint scream of people. This was, he knew, quiet in the eyes of the bar owners. The night was still young, and the true partygoers were yet to come.

He opened the door.

To Zexion's relief, there the dance floor was still relatively empty, littered with a couple of drunks. They'd obviously been a bit tipsy even before their first drunks. Zexion sighed and slipped past them to grab a seat at the bar. The room was shaded an irritating black that made the boy squint. He hated dimmed rooms.

"A martini," he rasped, slumping in his stool.

The bar tender leaned forward and stammered, "E-Excuse me?"

"A martini," Zexion repeated a little more loudly. He didn't bother to look up and thought little of their stutter.

"O-Oh! Sure, sure. Coming right up!" they replied cheerfully. Zexion heard them scurry to the back and the knock of glasses. "By the way, my name's

Demyx. But you could call me anything you want--I mean, you are the customer. What's your name? Oh, you don't have to tell me. Larx always tells me not to bother customers but--"

Zexion's thin hand raised to receive his drink. The bar tender held the glass skillfully between his fore- and middle finger; Zexion could see torn rags Instead, he set it on the wooden counter and tapped the side mindlessly, watching the liquid swirl against the glass. "My name's Zexion," he said softly.

"Oh! _Zexion_. That sounds familiar..." the bar tender's voice trailed. "Hey, you okay?" His face drew closer to Zexion's, causing the writer to jump backwards, nearly toppling off his stool.

"Shoot," gasped Demyx. He scuffled through the opening beneath the counter and reappeared beside Zexion. "Hey, sorry. I didn't mean to scare you--"

"S'okay," Zexion mumbled, eyeing Demyx warily. His gaze went up and down the boy in front of him. He had dirty blond hair, cut in what looked like a mullet but had loose strands falling past his ears about shoulder-length. Though he was obviously a little younger than Zexion, Demyx stood at least four inches taller. Demyx was lanky, not too skinny but of small enough build. He reminded Zexion of a boy made of straw. His voice, though, was the opposite of straw. It was the only reason he'd continued talking.

Zexion opened his mouth, "You didn't scare me." He just hated physical contact.

"Oh, tough guy," Demyx laughed. To Zexion's relief, he backed away and returned to his place behind the counter. The boy having distanced himself,

Zexion returned to studying the bar tender.

"What happened to your hands?" Zexion, taking a sip of his drink, asked glumly. He winced as the warm liquid sank into his throat.

Demyx had been cleaning the counter with a greasy rag and his elbow. Zexion could see the blond's face color at the direct question, but the writer said nothing else, comfortable with being blunt. "I--er--dropped one of the glass bottles," Demyx stammered with a guilty smile. "I'm just clumsy like that."

Zexion shrugged and turned his stool away. His blue eyes flickered on the clock and then fixed on the bar entrance; he didn't even know what the messengers looked like. He wasn't scared, no, but he hated being disadvantaged. They knew him, but he didn't know them.

Taking another sip from the glass, he waited.

* * *

Demyx had died.

Larxene had killed him, and some god had had mercy on him and sent him to heaven. And now he was facing an angel. A beautiful, blue-eyed, blue-haired angel.

"A martini," the angel said softly, beneath their breath. He was excrutiatingly pale, though his cerulean-tinged hair covered at least half his face. Shadows lingered on the nearly translucent skin.

Demyx flushed ten shades of red and gulped. He was glad the figure before him wasn't staring back. Oh yes, he'd heard the angel speak, but he was too flushed at hearing the melody to actually listen to it. Eager for the angel to speak again, Demyx parted his trembling lips to respond. "E-Excuse me?" he squeaked.

He was anticipating an annoyed reaction from this grounded angel, Heaven knew he deserved one--no pun intended. But the angel only repeated his order, "A martini."

"O-Oh! Sure, sure. Coming right up!" Demyx practically yelped. He turned sharply, nearly ramming into the close-quarter wall behind. He snatched a bottle to the left of him, forgetting his injured hand. As he placed it on the counter, he felt his palm burn. He twitched from the sting but decided against crying out. His shaky eyes fixed on the man in front of him.

Now, Demyx wasn't exactly experienced in the world of love. In his whole life, he'd only had one girlfriend, and she wasn't exactly official. She was a small, chubby girl named Olette who'd asked him to the middle school prom. He'd never been asked out before, so, not knowing what else to do, agreed to go with her. They'd never actually kissed, but she'd kissed him on the cheek once. Their relationship lasted two weeks at most, for Demyx soon found the two had absolutely nothing in common.

Sure a couple of people had asked out Demyx since then, a few girls and even fewer boys. But he'd never been close enough to any of them to see them romantically. In a way, Demyx didn't really have a sexuality...

Until now.

"By the way, my name's Demyx," the blond blurted. He'd burst. "But you could call me anything you want--I mean, you are the customer. What's your name? Oh, you don't have to tell me. Larx always tells me not to bother customers but--"

At this moment, the older boy reached up to receive his drink, his porcelaine fingers brushing against Demyx's hand. Demyx shut up.

"My name's Zexion," the boy replied quietly. Demyx felt his legs turn to gelatine.

"Oh! _Zexion_. That sounds familiar..." Demyx lost himself in thought. The name really _did_ sound familiar; he must have known who--or who else--it belonged too. He cut off his thoughts as Zexion grimaced and paled. "Hey, you okay?" Demyx wouldn't mind trying some CPR.

_No!_ Demyx chastised himself mentally. _Bad thought._

Demyx was just leaning forward to get a better look at the older boy, but maybe he'd propelled a little too forward. Zexion jumped three feet in the air, nearly sprawling off his seat.

"Shoot," Demyx breathed. He could feel his face getting hotter by the minute. He scrambled to find the "secret" door to escape the bar. "Hey, sorry," he shoved the words from his mouth, "I didn't mean to scare you--"

Zexion straightened and murmured, "S'okay."

Demyx melted at the sound of the voice. God, it was like a ballad.

"You didn't scare me." _Of course not_, Demyx thought to himself. _You're an angel._

Suddenly, Demyx found himself being eyed. Gulping, Demyx flushed as oceanic orbs examined him.

_He'll probably never look at me again_.

Returning to the bar, he teased softly, "Oh, tough guy." He attempted to scrub the counter top, hoping to keep his eyes down.

Demyx watched Zexion put the drink to his lips and sip long and hard. "What happened to your hands?" Zexion asked.

It was Demyx's turn to jump.

"I--um--dropped one of the glass bottles," Demyx practically vomitted the words. "I'm just clumsy like that." He cracked a smile but felt his spirit slump as

Zexion turned from him abruptly. Was the conversation over?

"Um..." Demyx fiddled with his rag-bandages. His eyes quaked a little as he addressed the older boy again. "Hey, Zexion, your name--"

He stopped short when the front door slammed open, three darkly-dressed figures silhoutted in the frame. Night had settled in quickly. When they stepped into the dim lights, Demyx recognized one of them immediately. It was the man from the street.

Sinking farther behind the bar, Demyx started to rub the counter with his elbow again. His face was tight. From his peripheral vision, Demyx could see Zexion quirk his brow, not at him but at the three men in the front.

"Zex, you're here!" the tallest of the men grinned unsettlingly, launching towards the seat beside him. His hair was long and a dirty yellow, and his cheeks were splotched red. Obviously, the man had had a head start on drinking games.

Demyx felt his jaw drop. _Zexion_ knew _them_?

Mentally, he shook his head. What did he expect? Just because he looked like an angel, just because he was polite--

"Hey, hey, Vexen," the shorter man--the one Demyx recognized--grumbled, though he had a similiar grin sewn to his lips. "Hands off our pet."

"I should say the same to you, Luxord." Their third companion stalked closer, light--almost pink--auburn hair fall over their face. His face was plastered with a charming smile. "Hey, Zexion. Remember us?"

Demyx could almost eat the seconds of silence. He was still pretending to wash the counter, and his bangs fell before his face. Beneath them, his eyes darted. He knew it wasn't his place to concern himself so much with strangers but...

Shuffling in his seat, Zexion looked up at the three calmly. "I recognize your voices--"

"From the voice alerts," the auburn-haired man spoke again, amused. Demyx hated seeing him tower over Zexion.

Zexion frowned. "Yes, I--"

"God, he's so serious!" Vexen growled deeply in his throat. "Let's get him freakin' drunk already!"

Features twisting, Zexion stood and stepped away from the three. "You're not going to touch me," he said through clenched teeth.

"Hey, cool it!" The auburn-haired man was approaching Zexion again, and Demyx found his hands clenching into his bandages. "Zex, chill out," Marluxia was giving him a hypnotic expression, "Vexen's just got booze up his ass. I'm Marluxia, by the way, since you don't remember. And that's Luxord."

Demyx could see Zexion's resolve wavering then, and he was about to cut in when--

"Hey, rag boy!" Vexen grunted. "Six beers right here!" Demyx only stared back before grudgingly ducking under the bar to fulfill the order.

"Aw, Zex, you really just gonna up and leave?" the blond could hear Marluxia talking. "Whoah there, a little tipsy are ya? What've you been drinking? Martini, oh. You really have a low tolerance for this stuff, dontcha?"

Zexion did seem short; obviously, he wasn't much of a drinker.

Demyx snatched the bottles, balancing them between his wrists. He practically dropped them on the counter as he straightened. Summoning his most resolute look, he yelled, "Get your hands off him! Go molest someone your own size!"

Marluxia--whose arm had snaked around Zexion's shoulder--didn't even notice Demyx yelling, but Zexion turned around. He looked surprised.

Having been staring doubtfully towards the taller man beside him, Zexion scrunched his light brows as he lethargically twisted to face Demyx. "Demyx--"

"Hey! I know this twirp!" Luxord coughed, wiping his mouth. After taking another swig of his beer, he slammed the now half-empty bottle onto the counter top. "He's a skinny kid I freaked out before. I was tellin' Vexen before!"

"Yeah, I remember." Vexen was grinning lecherously then as he dropped his own bottle, empty. The glass shattered on the floor, but no one bothered to see. Vexen was a big man, and though his eyes were clouded and his movements unsure, Demyx knew one body slam would break him. Demyx, despite being behind the counter, backed up. He was going to die.

"This is him?" Vexen made a lunge and grabbed Demyx by the collar of his hood. "Fuck, he's thin. Like a freaking girl!"

Demyx felt his face color then, but he forced his child-like eyes into a glare. His stomach was pressed tight against the wood counter, loose under-bar bottles crashing as his legs squirmed. Some of the drunkards on the dance floor had begun to notice what was going on, but most chose to ignore it.

After all, it wasn't going to be much of a fight. Demyx gritted his teeth.

Once upon a time, Axel had tried to teach his blond friend self-defense. "No offense man, but skinny kids like us are targets," Axel'd told him seriously. "And even though _I'm_ freaking ripped"--this was also said seriously--"you ain't, Dem. So put your hand in a fist. No, not like that--Hey watch where you're swinging that thing--!"

Well, it hadn't worked out. Demyx had escaped with five self-endowed bruises and a scar that still showed off behind his left ear. Axel, though being far less lucky, had dubbed Demyx an utter failure at all things defensive.

_Oh god, he's laughing like a maniac. _Demyx twitched a little as Vexen brought his face closer. His breath reeked--

"That's enough, Vexen! Get your hands off my little, baby bar tender!" a high, familiar voice rang out. It was followed by a loud _thwack_.

"Little?" Demyx protested as he felt himself being dropped. Grabbing the countertop just in time, Demyx balanced himself and looked up to watch the scene unfolding. He cracked a shameful smile and rubbed the back of his head. Larxene always seemed to overdo it.

At the moment, Larxene, in her slim and shapely glory, had Vexen down to her shorter height by his hair. Her long lashes were narrowed with her bright eyes as she pulled harder. "Did you hear me, Vexen? Huh? Didn't I tell you a million fucking times to never come back here?"

"Rmph--Yes--" Vexen coughed. Marluxia was watching the scene with disgust, and Luxord, having finished most of the beer, was laughing, red-faced and blissfully wasted.

More importantly, Zexion had his back turned.

Demyx ran from behind the bar counter. "Hey--Wait, Zexion, are you leaving?"

Shrugging away, Zexion turned to face him. His fingers were convulsing, but Demyx assumed it was from shock. His blue eyes were a little cloudy now and sunken, and he'd grown even paler. His lips revealed no expression. "Dem--"

Demyx gasped as Zexion collapsed against him. His cheeks were hot enough to bake, and he felt his heart lurched upward. "Zexion!" he croaked.

The shorter boy radiated a surprising heat, and Demyx, feeling guilty, set him gingerly on one of the bar stools. "Hey, Zexion? You awake?"

"Yes," he gasped immediately. Zexion's teeth were clenched, and he seemed angry at himself. "I'm sorry."

"I guess that martini was a little too much for you," Demyx teased lightly. Cautiously, he let his hand rest on Zexion's shoulder. "D'you have a fever?"

Zexion shrugged, wiping sweat from his forehead. He was panting.

"I have a migraine," he said softly. He laid his head on the counter. "I'm just going to rest."

"Oh." Demyx sat beside him, looking curiously. He slowly moved his hand to his own lap and coughed. His throat burned, and he ached to speak.

"You can keep talking," Zexion murmured, as if sensing his anxiety. "You have a nice voice."

Was it getting hot in here?

Demyx narrowly avoided sucking in his breath and instead smiled genuinely. "Ha, thanks. That's great to hear. I'm really into music, you know." He continued when Zexion didn't respond, staring aimlessly. "I play guitar and stuff. Electric, acoustic, bass...But my soul's in my sitar. I started a while ago, I think I was four. You should see my first guitar it's tiny--"

"Sitar?" Zexion wheezed.

Demyx's neck craned down to see him. Zexion was looking better already; his skin tone was milkier now, less sickly. His eyes were pools again. Demyx's nostalgic expression softened. "Yeah, it's like a guitar but it--"

Zexion interjected, "I know."

"Hm, I guess you would," Demyx nodded. "You look smart." He was startled to see Zexion send him a look of surprise. "What's wrong?" asked Demyx.

Watching Demyx strangely, Zexion shook his hand and rested his head again. He seemed to look past the blond. "It's nothing."

"Alright," Demyx smiled. "Just tell me if you need something. We can be friends, right? I mean, things like this usually bring companionship and whatnot--"

"Aren't you in trouble?" asked Zexion.

"Huh?" Demyx arched a brow. "What do you mean?"

"You don't look old enough to be a bar tender."

The blond flushed and averted his gaze. "I'm friends with Larxene, the owner. Well, sort of. And I need money. I have a lot of jobs actually, and--Hey, are _you_ old enough to be drinking?"

"I'm 22."

Demyx's jaw dropped. "No kidding."

Zexion gave him a look of inquiry as if asking, _How old are you?_

Scratching the back of his head, Demyx replied shamefacedly, "I'm 19."

"Hey, Demyx!" Suddenly, a sweet smiling Larxene appeared at Demyx's side. "I'm not paying you to _flirt _am I?" she said in a pleasantly acidic tone.

Demyx gulped, knowing it to be dangerous. "Er--Zex--can I call you that? Well, I gotta--"

"Go back to working," Zexion said softly, pulling himself to his feet. "I was about to leave anyway."

"But--Are you okay to go now? You don't look so hot--er--good. I--"

"I'm gonna call a friend." Zexion was tugging his trench coat together, shivering a little. He didn't smile but looked back at him in an unhostile manner.

"Thank you, Demyx," he murmured before turning.

"Yes, thank you, Demyx," Larxene said through her teeth, slapping Demyx rather roughly on the back. "For being _such_ a thoughtful bar tender. Now, back to work!"

For once, Demyx ignored her and jumped up to Zexion leave. "I'll see you around!" he called past the dance floor. His shoulders sunk, for he knew the blue-haired boy couldn't have heard him.

"Aw, look at that. Zexion's gone." Larxene slunk her arm around Demyx and mock sighed. She flashed her girlish features at a passing customer, sending a seductive smile across the room. Returning to Demyx, she shoved him at the forehead with the meat of her palm. "Back to work, Blondie!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Kingdom Hearts or FF or anything. What a shame...

**Announcement:** Hellllll it's been a while. And I am so, so sorry. Not to mention this chapter is a lot shorter than the other two. Actually, this is my normal length. I have no idea how I freakishly wrote so much for each of the other two chapters. I was gonna add a bit more, but I decided it's been long enough. No, I do not actually update this slowly, but school just started up again and I'm still getting back into the swing of things. And summer was summer. I was being active. Actually staying away from my laptop, lol. What a miracle. Anyhoo, thanks if any of you have still stuck around. Enjoy!

* * *

"He's _what_??" Demyx half shrieked. He nearly dropped the used dishes in his hands.

The bar had closed just minutes ago, and Demyx had offered--after a meaningful leer from Larxene--to help close up.

"Ishida Zexion," Larxene answered with a mischievous wink. Her high electric voice sang across the empty bar room. "The famous prodigy--"

"Writer!" Demyx paled even as he spoke. "Novelist, millionaire, _celebrity_..." The blond let out a low, zombie-like groan. "He must've thought I was some kind of alcoholic wanna-be guitar hero. He's never coming back here."

"Oh, don't give yourself that much credit." Larxene, smug and cross-legged at the counter, smiled ruefully. "I don't think even you and your advanced dopiness can keep him away."

Bemused, Demyx tilted his chin. "What do you mean?"

"She's just messing with you, Dem," Axel offered, appearing from the swinging kitchen doors. "I wouldn't listen."

"Oh? So what makes you any better than me, _Axel_?" Larxene's feminine features settled into a pressing pout. She lightly prods his cheek. "Oh, and those beers are coming out of your pay check," she added under her breath with a sensual wink.

"Why bring booze into this?" Axel grumbled, pulling sheepishly away from Larxene. His cheeks were tinted a slight pink, whether from embaressment or drinking was unclear.

"'Cause a normal guy would be more than a little tipsy by now," growled a red-faced Roxas. The short blond had stormed out from the kitchen as well and, from the disheveled state of the boys'clothes and hair, it became obvious why. "Shouting nonsense. But that's normal for you, isnt it?"

"Aw, Roxas called me special," Axel brightened a little. He swayed peacefully.

Roxas snorted. "Yeah, real special."

"Who bit _your_ tongue?" Larxene looked him over with mild amusement. "We know you don't exactly have the best disposition, but frankly I'm getting a little offended."

"Didn't say anything to you," Roxas mumbled.

"It's the atmosphere coming out of you, shortie." Larxene glanced back at Demyx. "You done yet, boy scout?"

Demyx, stashing plates beneath the counter, straightened and nodded. "Yeah, I think I'll head back to the dorm. I got an early shift at the café tomorrow."

"Is that right?" Axel called blankly as he advanced on Roxas. He grinned, though the expression had little focus. "Hallo again, Roxy."

"So what're you gonna do about Zexion?" asked Larxene. Her eyes twinkled.

Demyx answered dryly and stuffed his hands in his hoodie pockets. "What, do you think I'm ever gonna see him again?"

"Not so sarcastic, Dem," Larxene's eyes flickered. "You never know you'll run into in this town."

Axel snorted. "I don't think he'd want to know."

Rubbing his chin, Demyx shrugged. "Whatever guys. See you around." He lumbered past the now-clean dance floor and slipped out the front door.

* * *

Lexaeus stomped on the car breaks directly under his tall apartment complex. The gap between his brows creased in a shadowed 'V', and his jaw fixed into a tight frown. He ran a muscular hand in through his hair and turned around.

"Why do you go to those places, Zexion?"

Zexion, whose elbow was propped against the tinted window, leaned closer to the car wall. He shrugged, eyeing his friend. "I go often?"

Lexaeus sighed. "You really shouldn't tax yourself. You know that you--"

"I know, Lexaeus." Zexion brushed his forefinger against his lip. His forehead creased in thought. "Odd, the convulsing has stopped."

"Let's keep it that way," Lexaeus said. The door made a sunken popping noise as he opened it and swung out. Zexion, straightening, followed suit and slipped out of the sleek car.

"What were you doing this time, anyway?" asked Lexaeus. He was a bear of a man, with a broad jaw, broad shoulders, a broad chest.

Zexion shrugged. There was the sound of cloth against cloth as the wind ruffled his trench coat over his jeans. "Double-checking a few things."

"My god," the larger man let out a gust of a sigh. "At least you were conscious this time."

"At least I know how I came home," Zexion mumbled beneath his breath.

"What was that?"

"You're right, I was saying," said Zexion more loudly. The two headed for their apartment building.

Lexaeus looked his friend over and grunted. "I'm sure."

The drowsy-looking doorman nodded as the men entered and treaded past the lobby. The walls were made of black glass, obsidian. The neat-looking clerk gave the two an exaggerated wave.

"No longer trusting what I say?" Zexion mused.

Lexaeus smiled ruefully as they neared the elevator. "No, I don't think either of us could afford that."

Zexion's lip curled, though he said nothing. The elevator arrived.

"So are you coming in?" Zexion asked as the shaft ascended higher and higher.

Shrugging, Lexaeus crossed his arms. He eyed the lit button beside the elevator door. "It's a little late for that, isn't it?"

"Developed a new fear of stairs?"

"They don't call you a genius for nothing."

Minutes later, the two emerged in front of a penthouse. There was a flick of silver, and a key produced itself in Zexion's hands. He threw open the door and shot his friend a sideways glance. Lexaeus, taking the hint, stepped inside; he heard the door shut behind him.

Lexaeus raised a brow. "Is this new?"

Three of the main room's armchairs were lined up to the window, facing the other way.

"The more change, the less I'll get used to this place," Zexion replied. Lexaeus knew his smaller friend was shrugging.

He lumbered toward the window and pressed a hand to the glass. "So did you meet anyone interesting?"

There was silence as Zexion considered. "An underaged bar tender?"

Lexaeus snorted. "How is that interesting?"

Zexion shrugged yet again. "The most interesting."

"Relativity," Lexaeus mused. "I see."

Somewhat limping into the center of the room, Zexion's eyes unfocused. His face angled in the direction of a bookshelf, but his gaze seemed to move beyond. His light brows furrowed together as he spoke. "Naminé's been transferred to another client."

He heard a soft ruffle as his friend made an abrupt step backward.

"Are you serious?" Lexaeus's features tightened into a grimace.

"Again with the lack of trust?" It was a half-hearted joke, but Lexaeus wouldn't have it.

The broad man gritted his teeth. Clenching his fists, he twisted around to face his smaller companion. "How could they do that?"

"It matters little to me," Zexion said, now eyeing him. "I don't need a baby-sitter."

"I don't think you're the best judge of that," Lexaeus growled. "You're _sick_. No other editor's gonna give a damn about you if they don't know."

"I'm capable of taking care of myself." Zexion's eyes narrowed slightly. "Though that's another thing you would never take my word on."

Lexaeus opened his mouth, as if to spit something back, but instead he paused. Heaving another huffing sigh, Lexaeus's shoulders sank. He folded his arms and dropped his gaze, deep in thought. "Whatever, Zexion."

The room became silent. Zexion walked slowly, unevenly to a nearby chair. His ghost-like footsteps padded along the carpet and then came the soft _whoosh_ as he sank into the cushion.

"So who is your new editor, then?" Lexaeus grunted.

"A man called Xaldin."

"Xaldin," Lexaeus snorted. "What a name."

* * *

It was a dim-lighted coffee house, too dim to distinguish that outside, it was day. Red cellophane was taped close to the ceiling lights, close enough for the light effect to work but still far enough to not be a fire hazard. The rims of the walls were lined with little crimson Christmas lights.

"_...you'll be not a leafy sillhouette trapped in the leaking paint of horizon, but a spectator, a witness._"

Demyx fumbled with the lemonade glass in his hand, nearly dropping the tray balanced between his arm and side. His eyes were on the chique-looking girl on the mini-stage at the café's front. She wasn't a new face; Demyx would often see her backstage, rehearsing a poem or two.

Demyx swayed a little to the rhythm of the bass at stage right as he headed for a window table. Smiling politely, he handed the glass to the customer and walked away.

He was red-faced, of course. Demyx was clad in only his faded jeans and a black, leather vest--his boss Yuffie's idea of a uniform. He shivered from the exposure of skin but went along all the same. It wasn't like he was alone, and the other waiters didn't seem to mind the costume at all.

They were changing poets now. He could hear faint snaps and claps from the customers, and he steadily made his way past them.

"So I saw you checking out our star performer," a bubbly voice greeted him as he reached the kitchen door. "Do you want her number?"

Sighing a little, Demyx slumped against the wall, eyes on the floor. "No, no, it's nothing like that, Yuffie."

Yuffie bent over and twisted a little in order to see his face. Her eyes twinkled. "But there is someone."

Demyx gave her a look, red-faced, and sighed again. "How do you know?" he demanded half-heartedly.

"It's like there's something beady stuck in your eyes," his boss smiled wistfully. "It's not quite bothersome, but you can't avoid it. There's someone on your mind."

The blond heard the wind chimes at the front door ring abruptly, but he ignored it, waited for someone else to greet the customer.

"So tell me about her," Yuffie said. "Or is she a 'he'?" Was it possible to smile with your voice?

Demyx made a low moaning noise as answer, and his head bobbed a little. The tray slipped out of his hands.

"Oh! Hmm." Yuffie scratched her cheek in thought. "Did you meet them here at the coffee house? I always imagined you with someone as artsy as you.

Lots of writers and poets drop by hear all the time."

"It was somewhere else," Demyx mumbled.

Yuffie giggled. "Is he gorgeous?"

He nodded rigidly. Even now he could think of nothing but the man's face. "Let's not talk about it."

She laughed again. "Only if you get back to work."

"Alright."

Demyx heard the wind chimes again and went to greet customers. "Table for three?" he asked softly, just above the poets' voices.

The customers nodded, and he grabbed a couple of the square-shaped menus. "Alright, there's a seat right by the windo--"

Demyx stopped mid-sentence and gaped as he saw a customer who was not there before.

He was huddled in a corner, right beneath the stage. His blue eyes snuck out from beneath slated cerulean hair...

"Zexion?" he whispered to himself. He shut his eyes and shook his head. There was no way he was seeing the angel twice in one week.

Sending an apologetic glance to the confused customers behind him, he swiftly led them to a table and placed their menus beside them. Nearly running, Demyx soon found himself directly in front of Zexion.

The older boy was intent on the poet above him. His eyes shook with a deep understanding Demyx knew he would never be able to possess. Then, slowly, Zexion's head turned, and he looked directly at Demyx.

"I'm already being helped," he said nonchalantly.

Demyx blinked as the boy turned away again. Had he already been forgotten? The thought stung.

"D-Don't you recognize me?" Demyx asked shakily. He was being watched from just the corner of Zexion's eye. He was irritating him, he knew. "From last night, at the bar..."

"You're mistaken," Zexion answered cooly. "I wasn't at a bar."

The blond had a sudden urge to yell '_Of course you were_', but decided it too immature. He put a shaky hand on his hip and tilted his chin. "What do you mean? Don't you remember Luxord? And Vexen and Marluxia? I guess I'm not a memorable person, but--"

"You're mistaken," said Zexion again. But Demyx could see a hint of doubt in the boy--no, the man's eyes. And there was something else, as well. Was it...fear?

"Come on, Zex," Demyx scratched the back of his head nervously. "You gotta remember me."

It was then that Demyx saw a flare of absolute anger well up in the other man's face. But it was deeper than that of someone being bothered, more like an old rivalry, or a long suppressed hatred.

"However I met you, I'll say this," Zexion said through gritted teeth. "I probably wasn't myself, so I'd rather you'd forget whatever words I said to you and let go."

Demyx froze. He felt his heart go numb.

In the background, the poet was switching places with a silent-looking guitarist. Their eyes were clouded and distant. Demyx and Zexion both watched him lumber onto the stage.

Biting the inside of his lip, Demyx thought during Zexion's slight distraction. Had he really bothered the man so much last night?

_Last night_.

Demyx's eyes widened. Hadn't Zexion been saying something similar to Marluxia? Something about not remembering...

_He must have been completely wasted_, Demyx thought drearily to himself. If it happened often, of course the man would be hostile to strangers that claimed to know him during the day. Not to mention he was a renown celebrity--

Zexion spoke abruptly, his tone back to normal. "I'm sorry."

"What?" Demyx was caught off guard. Even more so, he was amazed to see Zexion's gaze stuck onto him in a way similiar to last night: unhostile.

"I don't mean to sound rough," Zexion said in his raspy voice. As if it were an explanation, he added, "Your eyes are kind."

What did that mean? Demyx's head was spinning in circles, and he knew Yuffie would soon come over to chastise him for slacking off.

"If you think so," Demyx spoke without thinking. He smiled. "If you think so, then let's forget last night. We can start over. My name's Demyx."

"Demyx," Zexion repeated softly. His brilliant eyes were unfocused in thought. "What a peculiar name."

The blonde felt his face redden, but he beamed all the same. "Uh--yeah, I guess it's not what you'd call normal--"

"No, it's unique," Zexion murmured, watching him. "It's memorable."

Demyx took a deep, deep breath. No, he _wasn't_ hyperventilating, he asserted to himself. "Well, you're Ishida Zexion. Of course that's a lot more memorable. You're really amazing," he breathed.

Zexion looked amused by this but simply shrugged. "That's one opinion," his gaze slithered past Demyx. "I think your boss is staring at you."

"Oh!" Demyx twisted around and waved quickly to a bug-eyed Yuffie. "I better go tell her I'm taking my break. Uh--I'll be right--"

"I'll be here," Zexion said quietly. He turned back to the metallic tune floating from the stage. "I'll wait."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Kingdom Hearts, not one of them. Trust me, if I did, I'd have something to say about those Axel-Roxas translations...

**Author's Note:** So APPARENTLY it has been THIRTY-FIVE days since my last update. Thank you for clarifying that for me. I'm so sorry I'm a lazy bum who can't get her mind set to the school year. Ciao

* * *

That Saturday afternoon, Lexaeus rubbed the glass cover on his watch, marking and unmarking it with thumb prints. Its hands were silent, with no ticking that dared to contrict the users thought. His chin rose, and he grasped the dangling handle on the train. Balancing his feet, he looked grimly out the blurred window.

His red-blonde hair tangled at the ruined ends, and his masculine brows drew over his eyes. Elbows bent, he shrugged in a way that rolled back his sleeves. His mouth was in a tight, horizontal line.

The train rumbled around him and hobbled, tilting left and right. It was like night in the black tunnel, and the white ceiling lights reminded Lexaeus of something eerie and alien. He bit each side of his tongue with his feral back teeth.

Checking his watch again, he sighed, a near-growling noise. _3:48_.

Lexaeus had finished his paper work at the police office at least half an hour early; he usually never had to come in on Saturdays, unless some emergency case came up. This week, his assistants had simply left their duties, going off to adventure or elope or whatever. Lexaeus was supposed to be free on Saturday afternoons.

He was free now, but he decided it was too late.

* * *

There are days when one wishes to do rather than be. This Saturday afternoon was one of them. Zexion imagined a world void of pattern and personality, where everyone's smiles were as erratic and fluctuating as sizzling oil. As he sat in the humdrum coffee shop, he decided he didn't want to be a character. He didn't want to have a usual or an unusual; he wanted to transform every second and never be a person.

But today Zexion was acting unusually.

The writer laced his half-gloved fingers around his tea mug and sat very still for nearly a minute. His heavy lids dropped over his electric eyes.

Zexion heard his mobile chiming hysterically. Other customers heard it too; they gave him stares of disapproval and annoyance. Stirring his tea with his forefinger, Zexion jerked his leg so that his phone landed in his free hand. The sleek device flashed multicolored lights, creating fireworks in his palm.

He read the screen quietly and tapped on the side bar engraved with the letters E-N-D. The flashing words died away; the unnatural light dissapated, and he threw the phone onto the table.

Zexion considered it a waste of time; he'd already memorized the memo's context hours ago: _Doctor's appointment at 4:00 PM_. As of then, it was

3:57 in the afternoon.

"Uh, hey. I just got off duty." Zexion's dirty-blond companion appeared by his side, looking uncomfortable and a little squimish.

"Do you usually stay after your work hours are up?" Zexion asked, lifting his eyes. He straightened against his metal-wired chair, running a hand through his blue-tinged hair.

The blond started to reply, but Zexion added, "Demyx, you look like hell."

"Oh," was Demyx's reply.

Zexion looked closer at the boy he'd learned to be a musician and knew, if he were less weary, he would have smiled. At the moment, Zexion wished only to stay hidden in the corner of the cafe, stitching his fingers around his weighted eyes. But he wasn't doing that either.

"As in, do you usually get in a lot of sleep?" Zexion elaborated, tugging his sleeves over his hands.

"Um, yeah," Demyx answered too quickly. He fiddled with the zipper of the hoodie he'd thrown over his skimpish uniform. "I," his voice faltered, "I just got in pretty late last night. The dorm entrances closed right before I got there, so I had to do a lot of banging to get in." Demyx laughed to himself, rubbing the back of his head. Their eyes connected, and Zexion smiled.

"And yeah, I usually stay an hour or two after work." Demyx eased into the seat across from the writer, his eyes slowly tracing back to the occupied stage.

"You get to listen to some really interesting people, and I'm not even joking. I hear someone got discovered here a while back--before I moved here.

And once someone called the cops on one of the maniac poets--But I shouldn't be talking to _you_ about interesting people."

Demyx's face seemed to lighten as he listened to the faint acoustics vibrating from the front of the room. Zexion found himself entranced by the sudden transformation, and soon he was staring. Demyx's hands were long and lithe, fragile. He could see the faint marks that nylon strings had left on the boy's finger tips, and he sought words for the shadowed niches that wrinkled the blond's skin. _'When he held the dull guitar pick, a wrinkled crescent would tattoo itself between his thumb and forefinger,'_ Zexion logged the sentence in the back of his head. He yearned for a pencil and paper.

"Hey, Zexion?" Demyx broke the spell. His head was tilted forward. "_You_ okay? You kind of blanked."

Zexion blinked once, twice. He squeezed his eyes shuts, moistening his exposed contact lenses. Gritting his teeth, he dropped his forehead as a sharp shock penetrated from his left temple to his right. "Ah," he breathed softly. From his eye's corner, he saw Demyx flinch with alarm. "Ju-Just a headache,"

Zexion managed. He plucked attention away from himself as if it were poisonous.

"You're sure?" Demyx asked. Zexion's hands shook, for he wanted to literally throw the other boy's eyes from him. Call it obsessive compulsive, he couldn't stand being a personal topic.

"Yes," Zexion struggled to strain agitation from his tone. His eyes were thrown open as he recognized his phone was ringing. Sighing slowly, Zexion released all strain from his body, as he'd done the previous morning. Unbearably sluggishly, the pain streaks began to subside, and he was able to reach for his phone.

_It's 4:06_, Zexion made a mental note as he picked up. His shoulders rose, expecting the worst. Six minutes, his doctor would note his tardiness.

He'd call his emergency contacts.

Remembering where he was, he spoke softly. "Lexaeus?" asked rather meakly into the speakers. He sounded like a child.

"No, it's Xaldin," a gruff voice answered him.

Half of Zexion soared, the other half dropped dead.

Zexion looked up and suddenly remembered Demyx in front of him. "My editor," he mouthed, pointing to his mobile. Demyx just nodded with a blank smile, but he turned his head nervously, in the direction of his boss. Understanding, Zexion made a motion for the two to leave, and Demyx nodded again. The two hurried out the front door, just as Xaldin growled out another low greeting.

"Yeah, this is Zexion," the writer said breathily as they left. The afternoon light scathed his eyes, and Demyx, too, blinked from the rude reminder that it was day.

Zexion couldn't even hear his editor breathe. "Your draft needs work."

"I know that," Zexion countered. He saw Demyx rubbing his hands uncomfortably. "Did you find anything in particular?"

"The draft," Xaldin answered, as if the idea of asking was stupid.

"Send it back to me, then." Zexion tapped the end of his phone impatiently.

"Oh trust me, I will."

The phone clicked, signaling the caller had hung up. Grimacing, Zexion shoved the phone into his jean pocket.

Turning to Demyx, he said, in explanation, "I hate him."

Demyx laughed, throwing his hands in the pockets of his gray jacket. "It's probably because he's _your_ editor."

Zexion shook his head childishly. "I just met him."

"Oh." Rubbing his cheek awkwardly, Demyx looked up, as if willing himself to fly away. "Then I guess that's it."

Zexion nodded, eager to leave the subject. His legs itched; he wanted to leave. "What do you usually do on weekends?" he asked, shaking out his head.

"Me?" Demyx asked dumbly. Zexion thought he looked rather comical, as if he too wanted the attention as far from his as possible, yet he'd made the trait attractive. Demyx cleared his throat, staring glumly at his feet. His cheeks were pink. "I dunno. I usually just follow my friends; they're always doing something. Um," the blond looked up. At seeing Zexion staring back, his eyes dropped back to the ground. "I--um--usually just go back to my dorm and practice the guitar and my--er--sitar. I--"

"Sitar?" Zexion asked pointedly. "You didn't mention that during your break."

Meakly, the blond answered, "No." He rubbed his cheek again, as if a touch could wash the color away. "I guess it didn't seem important."

"Not important?" repeated Zexion. He was disappointed. "So you're not really into it?"

"Are you kidding me?" Demyx exclaimed so jumpily, he reminded Zexion of an erratic toaster. "I love her like she was my kid! I'd marry her! I mean--Not that I'd marry my kid, but--" At this point, Demyx turned completely away from Zexion, having reached his limit of embarrassment. "I--" he started to speak but decided against it.

Zexion smiled behind his hand, touching his rough gloves to his lips. "Demyx--" he blinked and thrust out his hand. "Watch out!"

"Wha--" Demyx sucked in his breath as he jumped a foot backwards. Stunned, he watched as a speeding convertible whizzed about a meter from where he was standing. "My God, Zexion," Demyx laughed uneasily. "You scared the hell outta me. You made it sound like it was an inch from killing me."

Looking backwards, Demyx choked on his laugh, realizing Zexion's hand still gripped his arm firmly. "Ah," Demyx's face lit up with red again as Zexion retracted his hand.

Avoiding his gaze, Zexion stepped back onto the sidewalk. His voice was low when he spoke. "In any case, let's get off the streets," he murmured.

Combing his hair through his fingers, Zexion shut his eyes. "I hate the sound of car accidents."

"Alright," Demyx said very quietly. He bit his tongue and watched the world spin. "Then I guess you wanna go--"

Zexion's eyes spun around subconsciously; he needed to get off the streets. "Can I see your sitar?" he asked.

"My sitar?" Demyx blurted aloud. Scratching the back of his neck, he tried not to look Zexion in the eye. Zexion's left hand rolled into a fist, and he had to hide it behind his back, for it shook with impatience. "Yeah, if you want--"

"Alright, let's go to the college district," Zexion sighed with relief. Uneasiness tickled his spine, and he found his legs shuffling uncomfortably. "Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

Breathing coolly, Demyx tried not to look behind him. He could see heads turning, so he had enough assurance that a gorgeous man was still behind him.

They were walking—half-slithering, half-walking—down the dorm room hallway.

Say something…

"So does this—um—How's this place compared to your university?" Demyx coughed. He scratched his head and squinted, hoping he wouldn't forget his own room number. "I mean, yeah I know you had to drop out—and that's good because you're really famous now but I just wanted to say, and really you don't have to answer or anything, but—"

"My campus wasn't similar to this at all," Zexion said softly. "But I didn't particularly like my campus, anyway. That's why I moved here, instead of going back to school." He paused, as if considering whether to go on.

Demyx, eager to listen, tried to encourage the older boy. As they stopped in front of room 213, he asked, "So why'd you want to move here?"

"I—" Zexion cleared his throat. "I visited here when I was eleven, and then again when I was fourteen," now that they'd stopped, Demyx could see the writer's features clearly. The ivory skin over his forehead was creased, as if he were under pressure. "I don't know, I just always…imagined myself coming back here."

Demyx jingled the stripped leather lanyard around his neck; his keys were attached to the end. Briefly considering the fastest way to clean an upset bedroom, he decided it was one of those "close your eyes and plunge" occasions. Turning his key into the door lock, he said cheerfully, "You don't usually talk to new people like me, do you?"

"You noticed." Zexion's voice was steady and resigned, a detail that made Demyx's cheeks rush. At the same time, he was disappointed he couldn't yet elicit a reaction from the older boy. However, Zexion's tone was slower than usual, as if he were evaluating each of his words before releasing them. "I don't like speaking."

"Which is why you write, isn't it?" Demyx smiled. It wasn't really a question. Expecting the door to swing open, he gave it a little shove. However, it wouldn't budge.

Uh oh. Floor traffic? Demyx felt his cheeks flush, and he looked down sheepishly, attempting to discreetly break the door down.

"That was my _original_ reason, I guess," said Zexion uneasily. Demyx tried not to get too distracted from that god-sent voice.

"I'm sure it's still your reason." Demyx grunted as he kicked the door with his knee. "That's—" –grunt- "—how—" –grunt- "—I've—"–grunt- "—stuck with—"–grunt- "—music—"–grunt- "—this long." He growled a little, wanting then to shoot down the stubborn door.

"I—" Zexion had seemed distracted, but his eyes fluttered open then as if waking up. "Do you need help?"

"Um," Demyx coughed. "It's stuck. I'm sorry. It's my roommate, Axel—I guess he's not the neatest guy out there. This happened once freshmen year; everything just builds up on the floor. You know?"

"Of course," the writer said, but Demyx assumed he was lying. There was no way someone like him could be flawed.

Zexion did a sort of half-double take. It looked, Demyx thought, like he was waiting for someone to follow them.

"Umm… you okay?" the blond asked, leaning against the door with a tired huff. If he wasn't going to get the door open, he might as well look cool. "Looking for someone?"

"No." Zexion looked up at him. "Here, you obviously have something to work out with your roommate. I'll get out of your way."

"Oh, no, no!" Demyx replied quickly. "You're not in the way, definitely not! My roommate's just way too messy. I guess I'm a little messy too. But I feel awful because I promised that you could listen to my sitar—which sounds awesome by the way, not that I'm being conceited, but—"

"It's fine," the older boy said. "I could always listen to a sitar anywhere else. I'll go."

"Oh, alright." Demyx's eyes drooped a little as Zexion began to leave. "Um, where are you headed?"

Zexion stopped, shaking out his silver hair a little and twisting backward. "Why?"

Demyx bit his lip, his ears going red. "Well, you just looked like you wanted to kill time. So I figured as long as I'm free, I could," he hesitated, voice cracking, "m-maybe help."

Tilting his head to the side, Zexion crossed his arms, pursing his bottom lip. "You know," he said with a raised brow, "you're really very perceptive."

Demyx opened his mouth to speak but stopped dead as he slowly grasped the other boy's words. "I-I am?" he stammered. "H-How?"

Zexion snorted, running his thumb over his lip and forming a small smirk. "Well, maybe not 'very' perceptive. Did you have any place in mind?"

"Huh?"

"You wanted to show me how to kill time," Zexion said, his smirk tilting to the side.

"Oh yeah," Demyx smiled. "Well, depends. Were you going for some place loud, mellow? Quiet? Crazy?"

"Quiet's good," the blue-haired boy shrugged.

Blushing, Demyx picked at his hair. "Then, I think I know a place."

* * *

"Naminé?"

"Yes?" the girl replied in a meek voice. She was skinny, petite with blonde hair lit with an alienic, ethereal shade. Her fingers twiddled about her gray phone cord as she settled onto the bed in her apartment. "This is Lexaeus, isn't it."

She heard a deep exhale on the other end of the line and a soft word of agreement.

Pressing her lips into a small smile, Naminé adjusted the phone on her ear. "How's Zexion?"

"How could you let yourself get transferred?" the man's brooding voice cut in through the device.

Naminé uttered a light, breathy laugh. "Zexion's grown up. He can take care of himself."

"He missed his doctor's appointment today," Lexaeus replied. "He's not picking up his phone."

Sighing, the blonde shook her head, her smile growing weaker. "He's got to take responsibility for his own decisions, learn for himself. And for that to happen, we have to give him a chance to walk alone."

"And stay out late at night clubs, falling prey to drugged stalkers?"

Naminé giggled, moving the receiver closer to her mouth. "You sound like his father."

"He forgets a lot, you know," Lexaeus said. "It gets worse, and he knows it. And his new editor—"

"I can help with Xaldin," Naminé cut in. "He's not too difficult to deal with."

"Fine. But he needs more than that. Are you still in the city?"

"Yeah, of course," the editor murmured. "I just switched clients. My office's the same. My address's the same."

"Right near the university?"

"Yeah," she answered. "Are you going to go look for him?"

"Should I?"

"Lex, you need to get your own life," Naminé said. "Focus on something other than this mess. That's what I'm doing, what Zexion's doing."

"And look where that's getting him," Lexaeus grumbled.

"Lex." Naminé paused, shaking her head. "He does have time, believe it or not. Let him use it. And don't worry, I'll check on him."

"You will, huh?" Lexaeus replied. "Whatever."

"Don't go looking for him," Naminé said. "He's independent, and he likes being left alone. Find someone to like, a nice girl, someone else you can take care of."

"Is that what you're doing?"

Naminé giggled again. "Well, there is this boy at the university."

"Fascinating," Lexaeus cut her off swiftly. "Well, just remember to check on him. A lot. Will you go tonight?"

"Sure," she answered quietly. "But he won't like it. He might not even be there."

"Check anyway," he said. "He's stopped listening to me."

"I will. But remember—" Before she could say anything else, Naminé heard a click through the phone speakers and then the dull dial tone. She sighed, replacing the

phone on its original cartridge.

Biting her lip, the blonde shut her eyes, tangling her fingers together and falling back on the bed.

* * *

Demyx and Zexion sat together at an empty pub by the closed bar, passing time with idle discussion. Everyone once in a while, Zexion would glance up at the antique clock on the wall, surprised always at just how much time had passed in the seemingly small increments.

"I never thought much of her as a character," the slate-haired boy said, on the subject of a book, "just another 'Mary Sue' to appeal to female readers."

"Same!" Demyx replied. "I mean, you hear all these songs and lyrics about girls like her, but what are they really saying? No one's like that, and it's totally stupid because then what's the point of writing something like that?"

"Her male counterpart," Zexion continued, "I would say is the exact same, especially in the second half of the book. I'm not even sure how this got published. If it weren't for the supplementary characters and the possibility of fanfiction from the female population—"

Demyx nodded. "That's right. And I've always been—" the blonde cut himself off as he glanced at his watch. "Oh shit!" he jumped to his feet, grabbing his jacket from the stool below him and knocking over his lemonade. "I have a shift at this CD store in like six, five, six and a half minutes! Crap, crap, shit, I'm gonna be late! I have to—"

"Go," Zexion finished, watching the blond's panic dance from his seat. He took a sip at his tea. "And I hope you're not talking about _the Ambiant_. It's at least ten blocks away."

"Nah, just seven," Demyx smiled half-heartedly, wrapping his coat on upside down. "I'm not a bad runner, you know. I might look skinny and all, but I'm actually, um, not bad!"

He started to move toward the door, when he glanced back and remembered with a jolt who he was talking to. A streak of red flashed across the blonde's face, as he caught the older boy staring at him. "So I guess this is goodb—"

"You're interesting," Zexion said calmly, setting his mug on the counter. "Would you like to meet here again tomorrow?"

"With you?" Demyx's mouth dropped open.

The older boy raised a brow, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "I thought that was implied. But if you—"

"Of course!" Demyx breathed, his mouth going dry. He gulped a couple of times, making sure that his dry throat wouldn't collapse. "I mean—You mean us, right? Er—" The blond stopped himself, not wanting to build up false hopes. "Who else is coming?"

Zexion ran a hand through his hair. "Well, as of right now there is no 'is coming', since we're speaking of a hypothetical situation which has not yet been secured, and since we can't build a future off of—"

"Sorry," Demyx broke in quickly, "I meant who else _would_ come?"

At this, the writer shrugged. "I wasn't planning on inviting anyone else, but you can, if you want to."

Demyx inhaled, exhaled. "So just the two of us?"

"That's what I thought."

"Just me and you?"

"You and me."

"So like, like a date?"

Zexion eyed him before once again raising his brow. Demyx's throat began to sink.

"Yes, you can call it that."

The blond parted his mouth and broke soon into a wide grin. "Really?" he whispered in a soft, high voice.

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, nothing!" Demyx covered quickly, rubbing nervously at the back of his head. "So anyways…"

"Didn't you have to go?" Zexion asked, his forehead wrinkling ever so slightly. His gaze moved alternately between Demyx and the door. "I wouldn't want to delay you."

"Haha, right." Demyx turned shakily, still wearing his wide grin and dragging his messenger bag behind him. His steps were limpy yet light.

"So 8:00?" Zexion called after him.

Demyx twisted backward. "PM? At night?" His voice was high and hopeful.

The older boy nodded.

"That's perfect," the blond replied, still wearing his disbelieving grin.

"I'll see you then," Zexion said with a nod. And with that, he turned back to his tea.

Demyx smiled at the boy's back, before heading back toward the door. "Perfect," he whispered to himself. "Perfect, perfect, perfect."


End file.
